


Naked

by countesszero



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Het and Slash, Lusty Month of May, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, snack, snupin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countesszero/pseuds/countesszero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While James Potter is a leader, Sirius an instigator and Peter a connector, Remus is an opportunist. The wolf makes him secretive, and he is constantly afraid of losing himself. He is interested in Severus, but also repulsed by him. He thinks he is not in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Lusty Month of May 2011 challenge.

I am three years old when I have my first erection.

The black-haired, tall woman (I forgot her name) a friend of my mother, who visits our house once a week likes to lift me up and carry me around. When my mother and her sit at the kitchen table I am allowed to sit on her knees: I’m aroused even before I know what arousal is. How I love to press myself against her bosom. I can smell her, yet don’t know what it is that smells so good it makes me want to bury my nose in her lap. I act innocent and yet know deep inside me that my desire to be near her isn’t innocent.

With four I am caught with my hand down my pants, and the kind Scandinavian kindergarten teacher has a serious "conversation" with my parents. She tells them that I am probably not aware of what I am doing. I am not sure what she means. I like touching myself. What is wrong with that?

 

I am attacked at the age of six.

At first I think I am going to die. The Healers are standing around my bed and stare down at me with solemn faces. I cannot move my neck because it’s wrapped in bandages, and all I think of, is that I don’t want my mother to cry.

I can’t speak but I look into her eyes and she holds my hand and hums to me. Father is sitting on the other side and he is sobbing and crying. At one point she, the always tender one, snaps at him: “Stop that, you’re scaring him!” then she continues singing my favourite lullabies to me, smiling at me.

I fall asleep.

When I wake it is almost noon. Mother has opened the windows and the smell of spring fills the room. Her whole face lights up when I open my eyes. Both, father and mother are holding me tight, and now she sobs.

“You’re going to live!” she says over and over, “I don’t care about anything else. You’re going to live!”

 

I don’t remember my first transformations. 

Father builds a cage in the cellar, but after finishing he and mother put blankets and cushions and toys in there. Wolfsbane doesn’t exist yet I think, or maybe it’s too expensive. Later, my parents will tell me how they were there with every transformation, watching me becoming a bloodthirsty monster every month. Father says, that even the worst scenarios become somehow trivial if one is exposed to them on a regular base. After a few transformations my parents feed me rabbits and chicken through the bars, and at one occasion my father hauls his telly down the stairs so not to miss a world cup game while watching me and mother takes her knitting down.

 

When I am seven, teachers scold me several times for hiding behind bushes with boys and girls and urge and beg them to take off their clothes. In one or two cases I bribe a boy with sweets. Only to play, only out of curiosity but what I see makes my breath hitch. I don’t understand what an erection means or what to do with it, but even then I feel heat in my groins, sweet darkness rising in me.

One well meaning teacher tells my parents about my “little problem” and is shocked when both of them break out into laughter. “Little problem!” my father bellows. Confused the teacher pats me and I butt my head into her hand. She smells good. A flowery perfume, detergent, cheap soap, lemon scented cream, her own smells underneath, the light sweat on the back of her knees, the triangle between her legs. She looks at me, then shifts uncomfortably.

“He is very … precocious,” she says, pressing her legs together.

 

With nine I play with the other children in the park. Some of them are older. We play being our parents. The girls have to lie down and spread their legs and the boys have to lie on top of them and move up and down. That’s how the parents do in their bed rooms at night. The girls and some of the boys are quickly bored by that game while I cannot get enough.

“It’s nice being married,” I say to one girl, Ellen, who looks a bit older, and even has breasts, albeit tiny. She smells different than the other girls. She only rolls her eyes and saunters away, but when I keep following her around she shoves up her t-shirt and lets me see her breasts. I am excited. My cheeks are flushed. I touch them, stroke the pink rosebud nipples reverently. My little cock is straining against my trousers.

“Will you marry me?” I ask her, but before I even finish the sentence she pulls her t-shirt down again and walks away.

Months later, while playing with the same children, two older boys join us. They’re thirteen already, and thus, in our eyes, grown up. They like Ellen and lurk around her, pretending to ride their bikes but always circling around the park. One of them brings her a mars bar and a can of soda. I witness the first courting in my life. Later when I sneak around I see the older boy pulling out his cock. It is large and hard and looks very different than mine. He touches it, in a rhythmic, stroking manner, smirking while looking at Ellen, who feigns indifference.

“Have you seen those a lot?” he asks, and she shrugs, a little insecure.

“Of course!” she says. “I’ve had a boy friend!”

Then suddenly he groans and I step nearer, and the cock in his hand jerks and twitches, and white thick stuff shoots out. I don’t know why but I think after Ellen’s small breasts it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

“How did you do it?” I ask, but am waved away. “One day, when you’re old enough, you can do the same thing!”

Oh god, I can’t wait to be old enough!

When I tell my mother she shrieks, but also laughs. She says it’s because of my “Werewolf thingy”. Father only laughs. “What is because of my Werewolf thing?” They shake their heads and tell me to wash up so I can have dinner.

Whatever sin I commit, I am forgiven because of it. That curse proves to be useful at times.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing I notice about Severus Snape is not his nose or his hair.

The first thing I notice about him is the smell creeping out of the dirty folds of his robes, that stale breath of poverty and the unwashed stink of his thin body. I can smell him from the other side of that train compartment and as the red haired girl leaves, I only catch a brief hint of her clean soap scent while I'm enveloped by Severus’ heavy odour.

Sirius is fascinated with Snape from the first time he sets his eyes upon him. He doesn’t know yet, not until years later but he is drawn to him instantly, which manifests itself unfortunately in violence, taunting, bullying because he doesn't understand his own fascination.

During that first train ride Sirius cannot help following Severus Snape with his eyes, whenever he passes outside in the corridor. I remain silent, pretending to look at the passing landscape, the blur of blue skies, green endless fields and moors, tiny red flecks of brick houses.

 

At Hogwarts we quickly find our roles.

James Potter becomes the undisputed leader. To him the world is solidly divided into Good and Evil and for little eleven year old children who leave their homes and parents behind for their first time this bears comfort.

Sirius Black is not bright enough to grasp the complex layers of his own moral ambiguity which makes him an odd mix of hypocrite and tragic hero. (Of course as an eleven year old I only find him intriguingly unpredictable, sometimes full of bravado, sometimes a coward, sometimes noble, mean-spirited at other times.)

Peter Pettigrew doesn’t like to share his opinions and deflects questions with silly grimaces and giggling. It’s so irritating that Sirius sometimes barks at him which in turn makes Peter even more nervous. When we practice spells together Peter is undeniably capable but when he sits in an exam he is sweating profusely and breaks his quills and simply forgets all his knowledge.

He can be a gentle, calming influence though when he feels safe. When James and Sirius fight he is a silent peace maker. When I get angry, he soothes me.

The kind headmaster, Dumbledore, calls me to his office the day after the Sorting. Upon entering I am introduced to Madame Pomfrey, the nurse. She smells clean, of soap and camphor and potions and her smile is very nice. I instantly like her, and she takes my hand. They ask me a lot of questions about my monthly curse. They ask if I had to take any potions. When I was bitten, do I remember how the attacker looked? They ask me a lot about my knowledge about werewolves, and I feel like I am failing a test. I don’t know much. I never knew that there was so much to know about it. Finally the headmaster and Madame Pomfrey take me to a tree with moving branches, which the headmaster calls the Whomping Willow. The headmaster shows me how to calm the tree. It’s easy once you know. Like pushing a button. Then he crawls in, and Madame Pomfrey helps me in. First it’s hard to find my way. There are some uneven steps, then a very narrow slope. The ceiling is low so the headmaster and Madame Pomfrey have to bend their heads and backs, until the corridor gets a bit broader. Finally we’re at a wooden, locked door.

It scares me. Instinctively I press back against Madame Pomfrey who shushes me gently, and cradles my head. She makes soothing noises. The headmaster waits patiently until I calm down, then he begins to explain.

“This is for your protection,” he says. “But for the protection of your loved ones as well. On full moon nights you must come here, do you understand?”

He shows me how to unlock the door, how to lock it. Then when he is sure I can do it, he shows me what is behind. What a horrible, lonely place. It’s nothing like the cage my parents built for me, with my toys and my blankets, and I want to go home again.

The headmaster kneels down in front of me, so he can look into my eyes without bending down.

“I know how you feel, but you must be brave,” he impresses on me, “This building will not harm you. It is made to protect you. But to keep curious people from coming in I had to take precautions, do you understand?”

Madame Pomfrey gives me an encouraging squeeze.

They show me the rooms, then lead me back again. Once we exit again we have to move quickly with the Whomping Willow coming back to life again.

“Come to the infirmary on full moon,” she says. “I’ll come with you.”

Before they leave me at the entrance to the Gryffindor rooms, they give me a book about werewolves.

 

Somehow neither me nor Sirius lose sight of Snivellus Snape as we have taken to call him. I never follow him, like Sirius does, but I am somehow always aware of him. To me it seems he is always here. It takes me a while to realise that he is following us because of Lily.

James isn’t actually really concerned with him. When Sirius searches the castle to find him, like a bloodthirsty dog looking for his prey, James only tags along to see if Lily is with Snivellus. Peter tags along because he is curious. I tag along because I want to look at Severus Snape.

I like to think he is disgusting. He smells of rotten, dead things, his spindly fingers are twitchy and clammy, and there are black crescents of dirt under his bitten nails.

He is puzzled by Sirius’ intense hatred, as we all are. I can sense his confusion. We have not yet learned to read the infatuation that Sirius fights persistently yet.

I pride myself in being the one who introduces sex to our group. My balls are heavier since the summer before I was sent to Hogwarts. My sweat smells muskier. The onset of my puberty is quite early my parents are told by our family’s doctor, and mother only sighs. Familiar desires that have been a constant dull throbbing throughout my childhood, nothing but a sweet pulling, are suddenly so strong they seem to tear me apart at times, make me lie awake until dawn and spend the days with feverish activity.

It’s the wolf inside me. The book the headmaster gave me says that werewolves have stronger sexual desires. I am not sure about that book. It also says that being a werewolf gives us a preternatural strength but I don’t seem to be so much stronger than anyone else yet. I know I have a good sense of smell, but as a child it seems to me, it has always been that way.

The book tells me that I have to fight my unnatural urges. I have to fight that beast inside me or else it will control me and if that happens the Ministry of Magic will come and kill me.

I excel at Quidditch to calm myself but to no avail. I try to ease my tension with practising spells. I even get involved in fights, just to cool that maddening heat inside me.

Finally in spring I learn how to masturbate properly. I always thought I’ll have to learn how to do it, but the body knows. My cock isn’t very big yet, though I like the way it looks when it’s erect. I grasp it and stroke it several times, and following an inspiration I cup my balls with my other hand. I don’t know about Silencing Spells then, so I try to be quiet.

Oh it feels so good to pleasure yourself. I rub and rub and every rub sends a delicious jolt of pleasure through me, spiraling me higher and higher, there’s this sweet, heavy tension, too, pulling me and I begin to move faster. Suddenly I imagine poking Ellen’s nipples with my cock, then covering her breasts with my come, and that’s where I come the first time, hot semen splattering onto my belly. It feels wonderful! For a sweet, insane moment I am filled with sheer happiness and bliss. I am flying. I am floating in the sky. I am one with the universe.

When I come back to earth again, there is still that blob of come on my stomach. It looks funny, like jelly and the droplets on my stomach wobble a bit. Curious I scoop a blob up with my finger and taste it.

I can only hope that the earthy smell of semen dissipates before the others wake up.

 

At the end of the first year before we part to return to our homes we establish our little group and swear eternal loyalty to each other with the earnest demeanour only children manage to muster. Friends forever, brothers forever we promise each other solemnly, cutting the pads of our thumbs and pressing them against each other. Nothing and no one shall come between us.

The Marauders are born.


	3. Chapter 3

In the first week of this summer my parents talk to me about sex. In the beginning it's terrible.

Actually it’s terrible all the way through. But at some point I resign myself to the terribleness of the situation. I don’t know much about other parents and children, but I am pretty sure that most children don’t want to think of their parents as sexual beings. According to Freud, my father says, that is because children are subconsciously jealous of their parents. Sons are in love with their mothers and resent the father, and daughters love the father and resent the mother. And then there’s all this _penisneid_ and _kastrationsangst_.

_What? Please stop talking, dad._

My mother rolls her eyes, then takes my hand and when she begins to speak it all makes more sense. It’s still terrible though. I don’t want my mother saying things like "erection" or "semen". Most of the things they’re telling me I know anyway. I might not be a full Muggle, but I do watch telly. I know where babies come from! I am not a little child anymore! (Father snorts when I say that, then looks sheepish when mother hisses at him.)

It becomes more interesting though when they begin to speak about differences between muggles and magical people.

Father blurts out that wizards are higher developed and more open minded which doesn’t sit well with mother (who’s a muggle). He tells me that in the Wizarding world it doesn’t make much difference if one loves a man or a woman. There are magical creatures like veelas and giants and trolls and we’re all one, all members of one world and live in peace with each other. Muggles, he says, are not as highly developed yet, still full of prejudices.

Mother interrupts him impatiently and says the Wizarding world is prejudiced like the muggle world and he can get off his high horse right now.

Father muses loudly she suffers from an inferiority complex and she rolls her eyes and makes a disparaging noise with her tongue.

Father says that magical people have more sex. He doesn’t say it in these exact words, because father is incapable of saying something in simple words, but after twenty minutes listening to him going on about the magical core and sex magic and both light arts and dark arts this is the meaning I derive. Mother interrupts him in regular intervals with her raised index finger: “It doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want, Remus!”, or “You still have to be careful!”and “No, you can’t have a harem. That’s not what he’s saying.”

Both, my father and my mother look at and me and start laughing like mad people. I have no idea why my disappointment about not being able to have several girls and boys at my disposal should be amusing but parents are funny that way.

“Can a werewolf marry?” I ask out of the blue. It just occurs to me. I think of that book the headmaster gave me, and both my parents stop laughing immediately.

Suddenly they look sad and teary eyed.

“No,” says my father.

“Maybe,” says my mother.

Then they look at each other, and I know it’s something that I don’t want to hear because it’s my mother who speaks. My father isn’t strong enough to tell me the harsh truth. He acts strict and talks loudly and likes to argue, but he is soft inside. My mother who is mostly soft spoken and gentle is the one who is made out of steel.

“You can find love,” she says. “I know you will. Maybe you can marry her one day ... ”

Father nudges her.

“Or him,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But it’s not going to be easy. You must be very, very careful, Remus. Even if you love someone very much, and even if you think you can trust them, you must never, ever tell anyone about what … happened to you.”

I nod. She is not convinced and grabs my shoulders: “You have to understand, Remus. If you tell anyone it will be the end of everything. You will never be able to go back to school. They will kill you!”

I start crying. My parents scare me, and they both embrace me and tell me how much they love me but all I can think is that I can be killed.

“You’re a man now!” my father whispers into my ear. “You must keep a secret, and I know you can.”

I nod again, wiping my nose. I don’t want to die.

 

I like Sirius because he is beautiful. He wears his hair at jaw length and with his twelve years he looks like a prince, exactly that entrancing, confusing mix between femininity and masculinity I adore. He is tall and his grey eyes are framed by girlish, long, black lashes, his lips are full. Despite his youth, his jaw looks already masculine and set, and his cheekbones are high.

He is always smiling (except when he sees Snivellus), he always seems happy and so sure of himself and life. I desire him, I envy him.

In May Sirius who slowly catches on that I am masturbating, makes clumsy inquiries about sex and I show him what it is I am doing, and after a while he begins touching himself as well.

Yes, I am teaching the famous Sirius Black how to wank.

His cock is of a lovely pink colour and his balls are still smooth (and if I dare say so relatively small), his skin soft. There is no hair on his chest or on his face yet.

First we don’t even have an exact idea about real intercourse when we wank. Pornography is still hard to get although some magazines circulate amongst the sixth and seventh years. It’s just this idea of genitals, breasts, nipples, cocks, all tumbled together in our adolescent un-organised minds.

When we wank together, Sirius licks the palm of his hand first to moisten it before he grasps his cock, then keeps licking his lips and biting them. His tongue darts out, sticks to the corner. He never touches anything else but his cock as if afraid of his own body.

Surprisingly Sirius likes slow languid strokes. He takes long to come.

While I always look at him, whenever I wank, he never looks back at me. He stares blindly at the ceiling, imagining someone else, but at that point I don’t know or care about such things.

We all know that as children we have no idea what love is. We only love the love of our parents: Unconditional, instinctive love. Let’s be honest, yes? Your mother will always love you. Well, most mothers anyway. Most mothers will always love their children, no matter what, no matter how stupid, how misbegotten they are. That’s all we know.

If someone would have asked me about love I would have said: “It’s strong affection. To like someone very much, instantly.”

I can’t say I’m in love with Sirius Black but I want to touch him. I look at his cock and my mouth waters. I don’t think he is very excited to see my cock. He only remarks once that it’s bigger than his, and that’s it. I sneakily compliment him on his cock, how straight and perfect it looks and edge a bit closer but to no avail.

Shortly before he comes he doesn’t hold his cock in his hand anymore, but only quickly rubs his frenulum and the swollen head of his cock, pulling at the foreskin. He spits into his hand one more time, because he doesn’t produce pre-cum. The spit makes his cock look so slick. It’s dark now, and hard and … oh, I want to taste it so much.

I love the moment he comes. I can never get enough. He bites viciously down on his lower lip, then gasps. His left hand moves up a bit as if he wants to caress his nipples, but he only balls it to a fist, and then a thin spurt shoots out, and white, jellylike droplets cover his stomach. The heavy scent of semen and sweat rises which I inhale deeply. My eyes flutter shut, and I open my lips to let in more of that smell, to let it fill me. I always restrain myself from dipping my finger into his come and licking it.

(If I would wank the way Sirius does I’d never come. I am quicker but also rougher. Compared to his slow strokes the way I am pumping my cock is almost violent.)

As soon as I understand the real mechanics of fucking, have looked at more porn (porn is something that connects all houses and is shared democratically, no matter who manages to sneak it into the castle) my mind is already busy creating filthy depraved fantasies. I imagine Sirius straddling me, with that same dreamy look in his grey eyes when he wanks himself. I imagine Lily Evans licking my balls. I vividly see Bellatrix Black, that bitch, (who I only saw once or twice at King’s Cross) sucking my cock, while I stick my finger into her blonde sister’s twitching, wet cunt. I imagine Alice and Frank Longbottom kneeling before me begging for my cock. I imagine Jamie fucking me while I fuck Lucius Malfoy, holding him by his blond mane.

And I always come violently, shuddering and gasping, when I imagine Severus Snape fucking Sirius.

Yes, you’re probably right, I am a swine.

 

One sunny day a few of us, some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and even two Slytherins are lying together near the Black Lake. (There are hard liners in every house, but mostly we are all still children and sometimes just forget that we are supposed to dislike each other.) As the afternoon gets cooler one after the other goes back to the castle, and suddenly I am alone with a girl. My heart is racing.

It’s an excellent opportunity. I continue talking and edging closer to her, which takes up at least half an hour, and the next thirty minutes I spend to assess if she likes me enough to let me touch her. Finally I manage to put my arm around her shoulder in what I think an unobtrusive, smooth manner. She doesn’t move away.

Briefly I think a boy would be easier, but I have been fantasising about cunts lately. I had dreams about them. Torturous dreams about girls (two friends of Lily whose names I forgot) who wear short skirts and little white knickers under them. In these dreams the girls don’t resist obviously. They yearn for me. They push their knickers down and show me how wet they are, and I can feast on them, and in my dreams I am a fantastic lover.

Well, she lets me kiss her and it’s great. Every movement she makes with her tongue as clumsy as it may be goes straight to my cock. Her mouth is so warm, so wet. The longer I kiss her, the more I realise I want to taste her cunt. I think I know what to do. I looked at the magazines, and in these magazines guys just stick their penis in and the girls start undulating their hips and screaming in ecstasy. Can’t be that difficult! I am sure I am up to that task.

I moan, then grip her round, little shoulder and try to get closer to her, but she pushes me away, then wipes her mouth and tells me: “You’re a bit young for that!”

What the fuck? We are the same year! And didn’t she just kiss me?

“I only go out with fourth years,” she says. “You’re just a kid.”

I don’t know what to say. I desperately want her. I want to do all the things I saw in those forbidden magazines. I don’t understand that she doesn’t want it.

She smooths her skirt down and I force myself not to look at the naked skin between the hem of the skirt and her socks as she stands up. What are girls? Ice queens who take their pleasure in torturing us? I don’t get it. I nearly wince as I push my erection down with the palm of my hand.

“Are you coming?” the girl asks. I shake my head, trying to look as nonchalant and indifferently as possible.

“Nah, I’ll stay here for a while … see you later!”

She shrugs and walks back to the castle while I wait until it’s safe for me to stand up.

I am in a very dark, angry mood by the time I finally get back to the castle, practically stewing in sexual frustration.

Severus Snape is sitting on the stairs in front of the Great Hall, as if he has been waiting for me. He watches me coming up, with his sallow, blank face, these black beetle eyes.

“What are you looking at, Snivellus,” I hiss passing him and hate myself already in the same instant. His expression doesn’t change a bit, but instead he keeps following me with his eyes until I am inside.


	4. Chapter 4

For quite a long time I firmly believe that it’s Sirius who finds out about my curse, although why I ever make this assumption I can't explain. I adore his physics. His body and his face become more beautiful with every day. After Lucius has left, he is undeniably the most desired boy at Hogwarts. The desire to fuck him drives me insane, but he is not the brightest light in the shed. I have little respect for his intellectual abilities. Too often I look at him and think, he is a little flat. His thoughts are never very deep or original. Naturally I never tell him, but to listen to him talk makes me sleepy.

Peter is a bit more puzzling. James and Sirius tend to treat him like a kid because he just looks so young. Even when we are in our third year, the age where Sirius and Jamie undergo their first growth spurt, tufts of hair begin to grow underneath their armpits, and their bone structures shift a little, Peter still looks like a ten year old boy, only gifted with unsettling bright, knowing eyes.

It’s Peter in fact who finds out about my curse, in the beginning of the third year. (Later he tells me he already suspected in the first term of the second year.)

The plan to become Animagi is hatched by him, (although implemented by Jamie.) That night when they come to the infirmary to tell me they know I panic. I remember how my parents told me that I'll be killed if anyone ever learns my secret. James and Peter take my hands and calm me.

"We're your friends!" they say.

They tell me they have decided to become Animagi to be with me on full moon nights and I almost cry. I have never seen such friendship and devotion before. When people accept you are a monster, you are somehow less of a monster. None of them is afraid of me. They are curious, but not afraid.

Well … they're Gryffindors.

"It’s one for all, all for one," Peter says vehemently. It’s rare to see him so incensed. "Marauders always stick together. We never walk alone." It touches us all, how Peter looks fervently from one to the other, as if looking for confirmation. Inspired by his declaration we nod. “Nothing can tear us apart!”

And in this moment of course we believe it. The plan of my friends to secretly become Animagi binds us closer together than ever. We swear absolute secrecy. In our stupidity we even attempt the Unbreakable Vow, so moved are we by our own grand gestures. Luckily we are not skilled enough and the magic we create isn’t strong enough.

 

One day when Sirius takes particularly long to come, I don’t roll off the bed and just have a shower as I usually do. Instead I touch him.

He stills, his eyes full of apprehension.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Just helping?” I lie bravely. “There’s nothing to it,” although my heart is beating and I am nearly nauseous with nervousness. I have planned this move for weeks.

In for a knut as they say.

Sirius blinks and tilts his head. His lips are parted, and I take advantage of his hesitation.

“Come on,” I whisper urgently, then with a bold move that surprises both of us begin caressing and rolling his taut balls. After a while Sirius relaxes and takes up wanking again. First he can’t keep from stealing little nervous glances at me, so I assume a bland, bored look as if I am not doing anything out of the norm, and soon he relaxes some more. From where I lie I can see his toes curling. After a little while he’s gasping.

“Feels good?” I ask. I have no idea where my courage comes from. It’s the wolf inside me I guess. Sirius nods, but averts his gaze.

Then I suck my finger into my mouth and wet it and begin to massage behind his balls. Sirius tenses up again, but then sighs and spreads his legs a bit further. Oh, yes, that’s it. He doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t make a sound which is odd for someone who is usually as loud and obnoxious as Sirius is. He closes his eyes.

Suddenly he begins shaking, and I feel he is close. His nipples are dark and raised, and a slight sheen of sweat covers his chest. I want to lick that sweat off, want to suck these nipples. I want to be inside him, mount him like a dog and without thinking I push my finger into his tight little hole.

_Oh shit!_

I realise I went too far, and want to retract my finger, as Sirius gasps again, louder this time, his eyes widen and his whole body tenses. He arches off the bed which drives my finger knuckle deep into his heated flesh, and then he comes and comes and comes. I count three spurts, all of them thick and white splattering on his chest and I feel delirious heat, a flash of red searing lust when his hole convulses around my finger.

It feels so good. The tight heat, the smooth, silky texture of the hole, it feels so incredibly good, the way it grasps my finger and pulls it in, spasming rhythmically even moments after his orgasm. Slowly I pull my finger out, and Sirius briefly closes his eyes and inhales. For a while I watch his chest rising and falling.

I get up, then wipe the come off with a sock off his chest.

"I read about it somewhere. Everyone does that, so I tried it, and I thought it’s brilliant," I mumble.

Sirius nods slowly and I can see relief on his face, as if my blatant lie makes him less of a sodomite. It’s one thing to wank together. It’s another to enjoy being touched by another boy. Even with his nearly non-existent knowledge about sex he kind of instinctively catches up on to that.

Wordlessly Sirius gets up and goes into the bath room.

I lie back and suck the finger I fucked him with. I know I am a pervert. I don’t really care. No one’s watching anyway. I stroke myself furiously now, recalling the way Sirius gasped and shuddered, the way his arse gripped my finger and then suddenly it’s not Sirius but Severus’ pale, white body I see. My cock feels like a steel pipe and it seems bigger than ever. I push my finger into him, then it's two and I twist them and because it's a fantasy they're also magically lubricated. I can even hear that squelching noise of too much wetness, when his hole squeezes me. I bend down and taste him.

I push my cock into this hole, (and god, does this look and feel real!) he snarls and hisses at me, but also arches his body up and against me. Before I tumble over the edge I make him beg. His hoarse voice sounds beautiful, as he begs for my cock, and when I come I have to bite my own hand to keep myself from screaming. Instead I growl, and my whole body jerks uncontrollably, then white come spills over my hand and splatters my chest, and it's so good, so intense, so fucking beautiful.

I come to myself as I am licking my hand greedily. The sweet iron taste of blood fills my mouth and as soon as I realise what I am doing I immediately pull my hand away.

How would Severus' blood taste I wonder.

 

I should be satisfied with my life. It’s busy, filled with studying, practicing, duelling. In our free time we explore the castle. Once when Sirius is racing through the corridors with James, he yells: “You’d need a bloody map to find your way!” And after a while James says: “There is a map. There must be. Someone built that castle, so someone must have made a plan.”

None of us thinks of the Marauder’s Map at that time. We just begin planning to find a floor plan or some sort of layout of the castle. It’s nothing but a vague idea in our heads.

Peter and I get our hands on various floor plans. The books are not even in the Restricted Section but accessible to anyone. They are very complicated blue prints, loose, semi transparent leafs that are bound to a large tome. Some are sketches, some are detailed architectural drawings. Peter is fascinated by the enchantments of the moving staircases. He finds floor plans that reveal hidden pathways although it takes three (Peter, James and me. You didn’t really think that Sirius would be of any help here, right?) to find that out. One of them leads directly into Hogsmeade!

Sirius’ contribution is that he glances at the plans one day, watching me and Peter trying to draw simplified maps of the staircases and finding a way to identify the pattern, says: “They look like the Pharao curse thingies. Saw it in one of my dad’s boring books.” Ah, Sirius!

“What?” asks James.

“The magic … looks Egyptian … you know the ones in the pyramids to prevent grave robbers from breaking in.”

 

In the Christmas hols when Sirius returns to Grimmauld Place we send Peter with him “to visit”. The Potters and Blacks are not on friendly terms, so James can’t go and the house at Grimmauld place might detect my Dark creature blood. Besides, the Blacks aren’t very fond of the Lupins either. Peter Pettigrew won’t have these problems, James and I conclude: he is a pureblood, albeit from a relatively poor and more or less unknown family.

The mission is a success: After the hols Sirius and Peter return mentally exhausted, but with a dust covered book they could “borrow” from the extensive library. “Magical protection of the Ancient Egypt”. When we look for the staircase magic we come across a spell that lets the priests and the guardian see when someone breaks into one of the tombs. The intruder is revealed by tiny footprints on a map. To ensure that they don’t mistakenly hex a guard, the name of the guard is ascribed to his footprints!

James looks at the complicated hieroglyphs, he says: “Gentlemen, may I say Heureka?”

It will take us the better part of the next year to understand and configure this spell for our map, but in this moment we all know that this is the breakthrough we have been looking for. We’re all caught up in this moment, proud of our achievement. A secret map of Hogwarts! With glazed eyes we think of all the beautiful pranks we could play!

 

The transformations:

The older I get the worse they are. And the older I get the more I remember.

Sirius has taken to call me Moony, James likes to joke about my furry little problem and Peter describes my transformations as “that time in the month” as if I suffer from, I don’t know, the period. None of them has really seen me transform yet, and maybe they need to, in order to understand, that I am not turning into a cute pet every month.

Somewhere between the second year and the third year I begin to feel the pull of the wolf before the full moon, and I crave raw meat and blood for at least one day before and after my transformation. I never tell anyone but I panic. I fear that the beast is taking over.

Dumbledore’s book tells me that this can happen, but one must fight it. It doesn’t say, how to fight it of course.

During the transformations I am also painfully, intensely aroused. I pace the Shack, howl and bark, scratch the walls, bite the furniture, snarl, throw myself against the wooden, locked doors, over and over again. There is so much mindless, blind fury, so much darkness, and it seems to be growing inside of me and fester like a tumor.

I have confusing dreams of running through the forest, through the night, hunting and feasting on flesh. It’s a blur of images, and I can’t hardly see anything but loud, vibrant colours, dark green leaves, their citrus scent intoxicating and white trumpets of sweet lilies and blue flowers growing in the depths of the forests, the damp, cold smell of the earth, the smell of blood cutting through everything.

There is also something else, which I don’t tell anyone. Nor Sirius nor Peter or James, and also not my parents to whom I return after the end of the term: I only become aware of it gradually but once when the pain of transformation ebbs and I rise to pace the Shack, I feel an odd sense of _happiness_. 

I am happy. 

It’s a wild, blood thirsty and primitive happiness but it’s happiness nonetheless.

Dumbledore’s book doesn’t have anything to say about that.


	5. Chapter 5

I spend most of the summer hols in the cellar even when I am not transforming. When my mother questions me about it, I snap at her.

“Because that’s what I am,” I say. 

Frankly I like it down here. I have thrown out the toys and the teddy bears. Instead I have painted the walls black. I like the Sex Pistols, the Buzzcocks, the Clash of course. I feel that people who wear dog collars with spikes, mohawks and those heavy steel capped boots, would maybe accept someone like me.

I get in trouble with my parents for staying out late. Once I shatter a plate and my mother slaps me. All this because of a theatre play in a local school where a girl I fancy is performing. She’s the sister of a very distant friend of mine. Actually I don’t even really know that bloke’s name, but to her I pretend we’re best mates so I have something to talk about to her. She’s seventeen already and she’s got straight black hair, glossy and perfect.

There is no chance in hell, she’ll notice me, but I lurk in her neighbourhood anyway. In hindsight I have no idea how I got lucky. I make it to the theatre despite my parents protests, and she sees me there and smiles. It’s a wonderful smile, and it gives me the courage to squeeze myself through the crowd and talk to her. And somehow some hours later we are at the Promenade, close to the North Pier and watch the lights of the Claremont twinkle in the night. In a sudden leap of courage I take her hand, and wait breathlessly for her reaction.

She kisses me, then says: “You ... like me, don’t you?”

With a strangely trusting smile she pulls me away from the sea wall. I follow her, dazed. She seems to know her way around here. Further north away from the pier she turns towards the rocky side and pulls me into a little corner. I have to duck a little get inside. It smells bad, and it’s a bit dirty but it’s hidden from sight, in the middle of the Promenade, only metres away from the glamorous lights of the Claremont. I take off my denim jacket and put it on the ground and she sits on it.

All of a sudden I seem to be dreaming. It’s hard to believe my luck. I am going to fuck. Finally I am going to have real sex. I am going to put my cock into her pussy, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with fear. God, I might not get it up. What if I don’t get it up? What if I come too early. Did I wank today? And what do I have to do? I feel almost nauseous with excitement. God, I am so lucky! Yes, yes, I did it! I am getting laid, shouts a voice inside me. But, oh god, I also could piss myself now.

Trying to appear resolute and experienced I tug at her blouse, a flimsy, peach coloured thing, but she only smiles and takes it off by herself. Her bra is flesh coloured and feels very spongy. Luckily she takes it off herself, too, with a practised quick movement and just like this I stare at her small, firm breasts and rosy tiny nipples.

“It’s your first time, isn’t it?” she says. It’s a statement, not a question, and suddenly I don’t feel any embarrassment. I know in this moment she doesn’t judge me or look down on me. She just makes a simple statement, then takes the lead, and I let her.

She helps me to take of my t-shirt, then puts her hands on my hips and caresses me through the denim. Her hand feels incredibly good, even through the layers of fabric, warm and reassuring. I press my cock into the palm of her hand. Then, after a short moment of hesitation she opens my belt and the buttons of my trousers. I help her by pushing them down, together with my pants. The fabric gets caught around my ankles and I have to struggle to toe my shoes off. It’s an awkward moment but she doesn’t laugh when I lose my balance and topple over. Instead she catches my hands and then places them on her waist.

“Do you have a …?” she asks. I don’t understand what she means. “You know, a rubber?”

Oh. Damn.

In my panic, I cup her breasts and kiss her. I cover her with my body, rub myself against her.

She frowns, then says: “It’ll be alright! Just be careful, okay?”

Thank god! She begins undulating her hips, moving ever so slightly back against me, and this encourages me to touch her nipples with my thumbs and press them lightly.

“Mmh,” she says, lets her head fall back. I bend and lick her nipples, suck them into my mouth and when she moans I double my efforts, but then she flinches: “Not so rough. Gentle.”

“Like this?” I suck her hard nub into my mouth, and my tongue plays with it.

“Good!” she breathes. Oh, I am so hard. I feel I am coming any moment before I even enter her. (In which case I’d have to immediately leave the country. The shame would be unbearable.)

“Do you want to put it in?” she asks, then she takes me into her hand, and begins to stroke.

“Please,” I say. I press my cock against her knickers, and it feels warm, hot even, a bit damp. Her breath hitches, the loveliest sound I’ve ever heard and then she pushes down her knickers.

I hesitate.

Shall I just put it in like this? Or do something else before? Somehow I have always assumed that I know enough about this, having looked at tons of porn mags, but I realise with a chilling clarity that porn and reality have little to do with each other.

Again she saves me, and takes my hand and presses it against her pussy, then firmly guides it. She strokes herself with my hand, massages her clit and around it, and I can feel her getting wetter and hotter. With an impatient growl I pull my hand away, and take my cock and try to enter her. It takes of course several attempts and just as I begin to falter she moves her hips a bit and arches her body and I’m in.

Fuck.

For a moment, no for several moments my brain is completely blank.

This is brilliant. It feels so tight, hot and wet.

She wrestles a hand in between us, then starts touching herself. Although it’s awkward first, her knuckles pushing into my groin, her nails scraping at my pubic hair we find a rhythm. She begins to rock against me, and I start moving, cautiously first, then too forceful (the deeper I go the hotter her body is and my cock automatically seeks the heat) but she reigns me in. She lifts her legs, and that angle undoes me immediately. Her body is hugging me, her cunt clamps down on my cock, and it begins to twitch. Her hand moves faster and faster, and she emitts little sounds: “Ah!” and “Nnh”.

Suddenly the sea fills my heart and my mind, and it’s as if I’m soaring high into the sky. I am filled with fire and light and I can’t keep from screaming, and it’s so good, so fucking good, and then the wave crashes over me, drags me under, I am being catapulted into white, blinding light and it’s the most glorious, beautiful thing I’ve ever felt. My whole body shudders, and I collapse on top of her.

In the dim light that falls into the cave she looks supernaturally beautiful, like a veela or an angel.

“Oh no,” she says. “No, no, no.”

I blink, confused.

“You came inside of me!” She’s furious and scared.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. She rises, then dresses herself. When I move to help her, she snaps at me and I let my hand sink again.

We walk up together in silence to Talbot Road where I parked my bike and I take her home. Before we reach her house she hops off the bike and stomps away.

I arrive at home around eleven o’clock but strangely my parents don’t argue with me today. Instead mother looks intently at me, searching for something in my face, then looks away. Father stares grimly at the telly. I walk down into the cellar and sit on the bunk bed in my cage where I stare at a poster of Billy Idol and Patti Smith that I've put up there three weeks ago.

 

Two days later I transform. During this transformation I lock my parents out of the cellar.

“Remus!” my mother cries, and I can hear that she has pressed her face against the wooden door, that she is turning the door knob, “You shouldn’t be all alone!”

“I am all alone all the same!” I yell at her, “I’ll always be alone!”

“Let him be,” says father and I hear him going upstairs, pulling my mother with him. When I lock the cage, my face is wet with tears.

I don’t really mean to hurt my parents. I don’t even mean to be that way. It just comes out like this. I am angry and I feel betrayed. Other children didn’t have to go down to the cellar and get naked and wait for that pain to tear them apart. Other children didn’t have to hide away, always be aware of that thing inside them, other children didn’t have to be afraid of the full moon. I just feel that with every transformation my hunger gets bigger. There is this big, overwhelming want inside of me, like an abyss, a monstrous desire for everything, for flesh, for blood, for sex. I’m like a dog in heat, and in wolf form I can smell the stray bitches in my neighbour hood, and I rut against the blankets on the floor and I just cannot let my parents see that.

The next morning I wake up, bloodied, scarred, with painful gashes on my upper arms and thighs. It doesn’t look to bad I think. Makes me look cool. The Patti Smith poster is torn to shreds. Only a little corner is still taped onto the wall, and I am furious with Moony. I love Patti, and I especially loved that poster, Pattie with her angular, boyish features, her jaw length black hair, her white shirt. And Moony chewed it up. Arsehole.

During the next weeks I get to sleep with another girl. I think I am a little better then, and I also have rubbers with me. (An older boy gave them to me, I could not buy them in a pharmacy of course!) I manage to suck cock, I stick my finger up a girl’s ass and earn a slap in the face for that, but it’s worth it.

In short I keep myself busy. By the time September arrives I think that I know everything what is there to know about sex. I feel a lot more confident.

Instead of stilling my hunger it makes me greedy. I want more.

Muggle boys are peculiar about sex though, violent and repressed which is why I hesitate in approaching them. Once I try to touch a black haired boy, who seems to be experienced and I end up being beaten up by him, kicked into the ribs until I manage to roll onto my knees and run away. (Of course I was aware of the existence of homophobia, I just didn’t expect that amount of violence. Still, that scent of fear and sweat and panic that rises from the boy sings to me …) After that I am very careful to choose very effeminate, obviously gay boys, who are smaller and thinner than I am. Hence my love for twinks is born I guess—I feel they can't beat me up.

I know a little more about myself, am a little more honest about my desires. Almost everyone seems desirable in his or her own way to me. Already on that train ride to Hogwarts I eye the other students, and my smell of sense is painfully keen.

Some of the girls are ready, ripe for fucking, and their scents drive me insane. I am salivating over a large, brunette girl who smells like peaches. Then her blonde friend walks by, smelling of sugar cane and caramel, and I almost pass out. I have to grip the rickety doorframe of my compartment to hold myself back. I want to bury my face between their legs, want to lap up their juices. I need to suck on their rosy, sweet nipples, cup the blossoming breasts, I want to grind my cock between their firm, round buttocks.

In the compartment I have to cross my legs and pretend to read a large book to hide my erection. I have seen Regulus Black, Sirius younger brother in the corridors before. He too has grown over the summer, and looks like his brother, but is not as beautiful. Regulus’ eyes are more intelligent though.

Peter throws me wary glances, and sits far away from me. He is simply disgusted. His sense of smell is getting keener the more he is getting closer to be successful in his Animagus transformation. None of them has succeeded yet, but they all maintain they can feel the animal rising in them, trying to take its shape, trying to get out. He has become a bit pudgy over the summer hols, and James and Sirius tease him about that. Peter doesn’t comment. only looks out the window. He is biting his lower lip, something I have never seen him do before.

Sirius is thoughtful, sullen, but then lately Jamie and Sirius have taken to exchange monosyllabic grunts, in a failed attempt to appear masculine and tough. They have spent the summer together I believe, in Greece or Italy. They both sit with their feet wide apart, taking up as much space as possible, their hands shoved into their pockets, all gangly limbs and bony elbows, seething, filled with an unknown anger.

I think of that pretty Muggle boy who got angry at me, his smell of fear and somehow Sirius reminds me of him. Half an hour after we leave the station and our waving parents behind, Severus Snape passes by and I swear Sirius head snaps up and for a frightening moment he looks like a rabid dog, ready to attack and maim. His eyes are burning, darkening and I have never seen so much boiling frustration and disgust and something I cannot name.

_What’s gotten into you, Sirius?_

I think Sirius' Animagus is a dog. During September and October he increasingly exhibits doglike traits. After intense training sessions in the Room of Requirement he even growls in his sleep. Peter and I once stayed awake until midnight just to watch him sleep. Peter thinks that Sirius' Animagus will be a cat, a tom. Jamie bets he’ll be a wolf. Our bets have reached thirty galleons.

He is growling now too and startled I notice his slightly opened mouth as if he’s inhaling, the widening of his nostrils.

Then Snape has passed, a blur of black robes, and white, thin arms, face hidden behind lank hair, and Sirius comes to himself. The way his robes are pulled up, pooling in his lap, they hide his erection but I know nonetheless it’s there.

“What?” he asks, when he catches me watching.

Jamie, who insists on being called James now, doesn’t notice. He too emanates a thick scent of arousal and longing but I know he thinks about Lily.

 

The letter arrives on October 2nd.

Usually the post owls drop their parcels and letters on the breakfast table, then swoop out through the entrance door Filch is opening every morning to let the fresh air in as he says (he does enjoy the students shivering in the cold morning draft a little too much) or the opened parts of the high, arched windows.

This day however, one of the letters goes to Dumbledore, a cream coloured envelope with a telltale black frame on it. He reads the letter and excuses himself, leaving Professeurs McGonagall and Flitwick to oversee the breakfast.

James and Sirius both are wrapped up in their monosyllabic, almost non-verbal conversation about girls and Quidditch, that Peter and I have learned to ignore because of the sheer boredom of it.

After breakfast is finished, Professor McGonagall asks James to come with her to Dumbledore’s office, and he parts with a little grin that looks like a sneer. Maybe one of our pranks? Maybe someone ratted him out?

James doesn’t come back the whole day. Only in the evening we see him coming in, escorted by Dumbledore and Mcgonagall. He looks older suddenly, pale and earnest.

“Father passed away,” he says to the common room. “He died yesterday night.”

We all stand up, then one of the boys shakes his hand and murmurs his condolences. Sirius puts his hand on James’ shoulder and Peter looks forlorn, watching James with glassy eyes.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I tell James and put my hand on his shoulder too, and so the three of us stand, with Peter watching us. Then James moves, and I became aware of the parcel in his hands. he follows my glance then jerks his head up towards the our dorm room and goes up. Silently we follow him, with Peter coming in last. When he remains standing near the door, instead of sitting on James’ bed, Sirius snaps at him: “Jesus Christ, just come here, will you?”

James opens the parcel and unfolds a gaudy looking, silver fabric.

When he wraps it around himself his body vanishes. Sirius whistles through his teeth. Peter raises both his eye brows and says: “Wow! An Invisibility Cloak and brand new!”

“No,” says James from underneath the cloak. “It belonged to my family for generations!”

“Well, it’s been well cared for!” remarks Peter.

 

Despite my desires I am careful. I wank a lot with Sirius to distract myself although my fierce hunger keeps me awake at nights. Sirius too, is not really satisfied with our arrangement anymore. Certain things have changed.

The first time I suck Sirius’ cock he comes within a minute.

He’s not so big. We’re all not so big then, still in the beginning or midst of adolescence but his cock looks manlier now, a bit more veiny, and the mushroom head is a bit more pronounced, that ridge around it a little deeper. I take care my teeth don’t scrape over his cock.

Ah, it tastes so good. Sirius’ cock is made for my mouth. Its rigid, hot length glides easily in and out, and I can take him deeply, which makes his thighs tremble. He fists the bedsheets, gasps loudly, taking big gulps of air, his eyes wide open as always, and I wonder what he sees, I wonder who he is looking at.

Before he comes his cock jerks, and I have to close my eyes and begin pulling my own cock, it’s so hot, so delicious. I lap at the pre-come that leaks out of the tip, suck at the gland. Then I hear him inhale, and come spurts into my throat, and it’s fucking perfect, I continue sucking and licking and swallow every drop, not caring if Sirius is shocked or freaked out by that display.

It takes him weeks to reciprocate but I am patient. When he does, he is clumsy. He says it’s because I am large but I don’t think that my cock is so much bigger. It’s a bit thicker, is all. He is a good learner though. He doesn’t like it, crave it like I do, but he dutifully hollows his cheeks, licks the vein, lets me fuck his pretty face, and once in a while let me come on it too. He never swallows though, although he apologises for that.

He doesn’t stick his finger up my arse either which I find odd. I mean I do it every time now, I push up my whole middle finger into his hole and really fuck him with it, and he moves against it, pushes back, spreads his legs, he fucking loves it. He won’t ever say it, but he’s gagging for it. Only he won’t do it to me.

I don’t ask him too, though. I suspect he still thinks enjoying sex with men makes him less of a man.

We talk a lot about girls. We talk about cunts and what to do with them, and assure each other we know exactly how to satisfy even the older seventh year birds. He brags more than I do. The sad fact is that even in our fourth year it’s damned hard to get a girl to fuck you. Boys are easy. We want to fuck all the time, and don’t really care about who or what we fuck. Just stick it into a hot, wet hole.

At least that is my state of mind.


	6. Chapter 6

The summer of 1976 is stifling hot. It’s the hottest summer I can remember. A lot of cafés put chairs and tables outside on the street, and the police ignores it, even if it in some cases goes against the regulations. After work Londoners don’t return home but rather crowd the new fashionable places in Soho, sipping the new fashionable iced cocktails. Most buses and trains don’t have air conditioning and the air in them is ripe with the smell of unwashed, sweating bodies. It's hard to breathe.

There are TV-reports of old people dying of heat strokes. Many people suffer from asthma and hay fever. Men carry their jackets and ties in their brief cases and put them on in the office elevators or lavatories, their white shirts drenched with sweat. Women wear sinful, short skirts, dresses and hot pants. I love hot pants! I have never seen so many women with daring red lips and smouldering khol rimmed eyes than in this summer. They sway their hips when walking, and I can’t decide where to look. So much glistening skin! It’s like being in a garden of flesh and temptation! I feel like a child in a chocolate shop.

Even in the Wizarding world the fashion adapts to the ever present heat, although going sans robe is regarded as scandalous. The younger witches don’t care, and use this to signal rebellion against the prevalent pureblood traditions. _Going muggle_ is a fashionable term these days.

Flourish & Blotts owls parchments advertising books about Cooling charms to Wizarding households, and for a few weeks everyone is debating the best and most effective charms.

The sky is a vibrant glaring blue, merciless, the sun is blistering hot. All colours usually so subdued by the London smog are loud and shrill like the expressionistic, cruel paintings of Francis Bacon. The air reeks of car emissions, the heat from the asphalt, the dusty smell of bricks. It seems to me that London is noisier and dirtier than ever.

The barriers between muggles and Wizarding people don’t dissolve or become obsolete. They become, in fact, more pronounced. To me, this is also the first time I become aware that we are not one. The days of Flower Power, of peace, love and hope are over. We were dreaming, but now we are waking up to reality and it's a harsh awakening.

In the seventies muggle households are more and more equipped with tellies, washing machines, the microwave is invented, digital watches appear, many homes have tape recorders and record players. Suddenly the gap between muggles and the magic people of Britain seems to widen into an irreconcilable abyss.

The muggles of my age are the first generation born several years after the second world war. The economy, which was hopeful after the second muggle-war, is rapidly declining. Real estate prices are climbing upwards, but wages stall. The optimism of the fifties is now replaced by contempt, a rebellious attitude.

In the wizarding world we don’t care about all that. It’s about Voldemort. Either you’re for or against him. Nowadays it seems perfectly clear that he was evil. A lot of young people cannot understand how he was not arrested and done away with immediately.

 _How could you not know?_

In hindsight the past seems always so simple, so clear.

The Marauders were special not only because of the legendary pranks we played, aided by James’ Invisibility Cloak and the ever developing Marauders Map, the numerous conquests of James and Sirius, the jokes of Peter. We are the only group of friends at this time in Hogwarts that is mixed. James and Sirius are purebloods, in fact are descendants from one of the oldest pureblood families in Britain. Peter and I are both halfbloods. Lily who is more or less an honorary Marauder, not because she approves of our pranks but because she is a friend to all of us, despite her quarrels with James and Sirius, is a muggleborn.

In these days, even some Gryffindors hesitantly attribute Voldemort charisma, charm, intelligence. Many say: “I don’t like him, but he’s a necessary evil!” The rumours about his crimes, the murders of muggle borns and halfbloods are hear say, and there are many who distrust the Ministry of Magic anyway, and think whatever the minister and the Wizengamot have to say about Voldemort is fear driven propaganda. (Sirius hints that sometimes.)

Even in our group there is a clear divide between the muggleborns and halfbloods against the purebloods. There is not a clear consensus about the definition of Dark magic for example. James and Lily have a lot of arguments. James thinks Lily can’t understand Wizarding traditions. Lily thinks James’ definition of Light and Dark magic are pre-conceived, he is conditioned by his pureblood parents.

Sirius doesn’t participate in these discussions, but at times utters some unbelievable silly, prejudiced remarks, that leave Peter and me speechless. Paradoxically, Sirius is the one who immerses himself in all things muggle: he rides motorbikes, reads muggle books … well, he reads books like 'Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)', watches movies and starts going out with muggleborn girls. He prides himself in being a muggle-lover.

At some time in late July or early August his parents catch him in flagranti with a muggle girl in Regulus’ (who spends his summer with the Malfoy family in Verona) room. He refuses to apologise or show remorse and is thrown out of the house. It’s all quite the scandal. When the Potters invite Sirius to stay with them, it’s considered outrageous. Some say Potter senior plans to take over Sirius' education, install him in the Wizengamot and use him as a political tool, which is only a sound plan to people who don’t know Sirius and his intellectual limits.

Shortly after that three masked Death Eaters enter the ministry and manage to take seven hostages. They barricade themselves in the Department of Mysteries and demand that two Death Eaters imprisoned in Azkaban are set free. The negotiations last two days. On the third days Aurors and Hit wizards conduct a raid and free the hostages killing all three Death Eaters.

Many wizarding students view these Death Eaters as heroes, especially after their identity is revealed. All of them were very young, barely twenty. Their pale, dead faces are on the front page of the Daily Prophet, and many take pity with them, forgetting that they were ready to kill seven people. Ever noticed how innocent dead people look, their facial expressions devoid of malicious intent?

Articles in the Daily Prophet turn up, questioning the background and integrity of the seven hostages and begin describing Voldemort as someone who only “punishes” wrongdoers, although never quite in these words.

To me Voldemort is somehow darkly romantic. There are so many rumours about corruption in the ministry and in the wild, unbridled seventies the minister is considered reactionary. Trust no one! is a popular motto. There are quite a few who dabble in the Dark Arts. It’s because the ministry condemns it so adamantly, we’re interested in it.

I remember that I too take pleasure in playing devil’s advocate and argue with headmaster Dumbledore about Voldemort. He’s calm and dismantles my logic with a few words, but my father is easier to provoke. In one of our fights he accuses me of not understanding the seriousness of it all, the danger of Voldemort, that I am flirting with darkness.

To me this whole debate has another meaning too: I _am_ a dark creature. I can be caught, caged and shot like an animal. I am regarded as an animal. Why should I feel any loyalty to the ministry? Of course it doesn’t make me a follower of Voldemort. My father doesn’t understand, is too slow and unchanging in his way to listen. I don’t approve of Voldemort. But there are parts of me that can understand his actions.

I feel that people have a welcome excuse to hate everything they don’t understand. Including people like me.

 

Fifth year. Time flies by, doesn’t it?

I am prefect. Why McGonagall thinks I am a suitable choice I don’t know but I accept. At that time I think that being a prefect will protect me. If anyone finds out about my curse I will be able to say, but see here, I’ve been a prefect and nothing ever happened.

On the Hogwarts express I learn that Lily is a prefect too, and both of us go through the carriage where all the first years are, excitedly chattering with each other, sticky fingered from the sweets, some boys running the corridor up and down, shrieking. A few children are rather timid, stare at the passing landscape with big, sorrowful eyes, separated from their parents for the first time. It seems like yesterday to me since I was one of them, pressing myself into a corner, watching James’ and Sirius’ antics, exchanging shy smiles with Peter.

 

The saga between James and Lily becomes unbearable. They snipe at each other, fight and argue, yet James always manages to sit close to her in all classes. He takes Advanced Potions because of her. I can tell she is interested because it flatters her that he is so persistent but her criticism is honest. I am not sure if James understands that. I suspect that he believes that she is merely flirting with him. James has never been particularly modest or insightful.

Once Peter tells James that he thinks Lily pities him, and may be laughing about him with Snape, and James' face is dark and red with anger. He nearly strikes Peter, and Peter doesn’t flinch. “Don’t you see?” he says. “You let her come between us. We’re the musketeers, remember? We swore an oath. One for all, all for one!” James pulls his hand back, and we all look at Peter.

“We were children then …” Sirius says hesitantly, “that’s children stuff.”

“NO,” says Peter. His eyes are blazing, his cheeks flushed. “You’re wrong. You’re the only family I have, alright? You’re all I have, and you all let that slip away because all you can think of is, are your stupid cocks! But I won’t have it!”

Nobody says much to that. James finally reaches out to him, and pulls him into a hug, and Peter embraces him back, murmuring: “Friends forever, marauders forever, remember?”

I put a hand on his shoulder, pat him awkwardly, “Alright, Pete,” I say soothingly, “we’re friends. Nothing’s gonna change that!”

 

There are tensions between Lily and Snape. Not for the first time we ask Lily about the nature of their friendship. She tells James and Sirius, she is Snape’s girlfriend just to watch their apoplectic fits. Even I have to say, it is quite funny to see their eyes bulge. (Of course I ask myself, why would Sirius be so furious about it? When I look at Peter he smiles wryly, a new strange smile he sort of learned over summer.) She tells me and Peter once, that she grew up with him, but that I guess is another of her jokes. They don’t even have the same accent.

She might be Snape’s friend, but he is not her friend, Peter tells her. Doesn’t she see how he laughs at her sometimes, when he is with his Slytherin friends? How can she not see? How can one be so blind?

Lily becomes angry when Sirius or James say such things but she trusts Peter and his little boy face. Instead of becoming angry and defensive she is merely thoughtful and withdrawn. He is the only one who she treats with gentleness. She is at times snide to James, yet unfailingly sweet to Peter.

I notice how at some occasions when Sirius seeks out Severus, James demonstratively doesn’t participate, hoping Lily will notice. At times James stops Sirius from playing mean pranks, from getting into fights, from pursuing Severus even.

By now you already know I’m filthy so it won’t really shock you when I tell you that James has an almost constant hard on for her, that I can smell his constant painful arousal. He is following her blindly, like a dog in heat, and recently has resorted to begging. Pathetic.

Is such behaviour love? James certainly thinks so, and maybe even Lily.

Peter teases Sirius mercilessly about his suppressed homosexuality and his obvious obsession with Severus Snape, and Sirius white with fury is not able to respond, slow as he is.

Snape is following us around again. More than once he manages to tell a teacher or a prefect about our meetings, and we land in detention, and once or twice our parents are asked to come to McGonagall’s office, James’ mother has one long afternoon talk with Dumbledore after which she emerges with a furious expression.

He and his friends, Rosier and Crabbe, follow us to hex us, but mainly James. James' attempts to not participate in these fights incense him even more.

For a reason I can’t really fathom after all these years I begin following Snape. He is spying on us, and he is dangerous. While Sirius incessant hatred didn’t make him go over the edge, the fact that James seems to get closer to Lily makes him froth. If he finds out what I am, I’ll be expelled and probably detained, maybe even sent to Azkaban.

One day when I pass Regulus and Snape in the corridor between classes, they are exchanging books. For an instant their hands meet, and Regulus looks at him and quickly with a secretive smile caresses Snape’s hand with his thumb. Peter sees it too, yanks his head up and away, nearly gagging. (One might think he’s allergic to sex the way he sometimes behaves.) Whatever that odd feeling is I feel it runs through my veins like lava, burning, scalding.

Somehow it has never ever entered my mind that Snape might have sex too. And with Regulus Black, a pureblood wizard. But do they really have sex?

My curiosity keeps me awake. Not even fooling around with Sirius can distract me. And anyway, we are not much further. He lets me suck him which is nice, but that's it. Fucking is out of the question.

These days with being a prefect I am under constant pressure, ready to boil over, to explode.

I make use of James’ cloak and wander the corridors, filled with restlessness, a strange expectant curiosity.

It takes only three nights until I am rewarded.

They leave the dorm together, press themselves against the walls of the corridors, until they are in the courtyard and then they slip into one of the green houses.

It’s nothing like the still rather timid (and bland) sex between Sirius and me. Severus and Regulus are rough. Severus bends forward, hands braced against the glass, then he spreads his legs, pushing his robes up. Regulus puts his mouth onto Snape’s arsehole and starts kissing and licking it with fervour, without a trace of disgust.

Oh fuck, I am hard! This is something I’ve been itching to do with Sirius for a long time, but somehow he has never let me. Too gay I suppose. I tried it with some of the girls and I loved it. They liked it too, judging from their incoherent cries and pleas for more.

Snape grunts and fucks himself on Regulus’ tongue, without any shame. Regulus nibbles and sucks then licks up and down the cleft, all the while squeezing and pulling his own cock. When he gets up, to pull his robes back and reveal his red cock, I get a glimpse of Snape’s white arse and his dark, wet hole.

He might be thin and still gangly but his arse is perfect. It's round and smooth, yet firm. And that twitching hole! It’s begging for cock! Regulus uses spit, plenty of it, smears it onto his own cock until it glistens wet and dark, then kneels again and spits on Severus’ hole (I nearly come when I see that), pushing two fingers into him to lubricate him. Severus whole body jerks and trembles. Panting Regulus gets up and finally pushes in.

The sound Severus makes is nothing like the sound I imagined. It’s a moan, a strange growling, that ends in a strangled whimper. Regulus gasps, then stills, holding Severus' hips with both hands to prevent him from moving.

Severus claws at the window frame, finds hold at a wooden bar. I can see his adam apple moving.

He grunts something unintelligible, but Regulus seems to understand as he slowly begins to slide in and out.

 _Objectively_ an ugly sight. Snivellus’ bared thin legs, blue veins starkly contrasting with his pallid skin, his buckling, bony red knees, the large, flat feet. Regulus pushes the robe over his head, then Severus is naked. His upper body is gaunt and flabby at the same time, ribs sticking out under greyish skin, a soft stomach wobbling with the thrusts, the thin arms without definition. His nipples are bigger than Sirius’, and stiff. Touch them, I beg wordlessly, and as if he has heard me, he begins to play with one of the nipples, twists it, pinches it. How I want lick his hard nubs, suck them, bite them!

His breathy moans are quite loud in the silence of the green house. From the corner of my eye I see some vines slithering closer, yellow and orange coloured orchids turning towards them as if they're the sun, as if all the plants are watching too.

Quietly I slip my hand underneath the waistband of my trousers and begin to stroke my rock hard cock. My heart is pounding. I have to squeeze the base to prevent myself from coming. I don’t want to come before them. I want to come with them.

Regulus lifts one of his legs and braces himself against a wooden table and that position gives him a better angle. Severus seems to agree because he moans suddenly even louder.

He’s fucking beautiful.

Not like a girl, not in the sense one usually means it, but somehow in his shameless display of lust and wantonness he is more beautiful then perfect Sirius. I am mesmerised by the way he moves with Regulus’ thrusts. He is not afraid of his own desires. I have never seen him like this before, so undone, so open and vulnerable.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Regulus spits on Severus cleft again. Severus doesn’t object. When Regulus presses his chest against his back, he takes Severus’ hard cock and pulls and strokes it. I can hear the slick, slapping noise, and Severus movements and moans become erratic.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, …,” he chants, between gasps. He hangs onto that bar for dear life, rubbing his damp, sweaty face against the glass. “Ah … oh …”

Finally Regulus pulls his cock out all the way, then rams it back in. A strangled sob escapes him, and he makes quick movements that remind me a little of a dog, mounting a bitch. He holds on to Severus, and they both scream.

“Oh god,” says Regulus, “fuck, I’m coming … you feel so … oh-oh … fuck!” And then finally he stills, his face contorted, his eyes closed, and he takes a shuddering breath. After a while he resumes his pumping again, but slower.

He tries to get his breathing under control. Then he pulls out completely, and I get an excellent view of Severus’ widened hole. Come is dripping out of it, running down his pale, trembling thighs. Before the first of it reaches Severus’ knees Regulus kneels down, and laps it up. Upwards he laps, until his face between Severus’ abused, pink arse cheeks again, and he makes a vulgar, slurping noise. Regulus licks his own come out of Severus’ hole.

Fuck, I have never seen anything hotter. My hand around my cock is moving furiously, in tandem with Severus hand moving on his own cock.

“Oh Fuck, yes!” Severus screams so loud, it must have wakened everyone in Hogsmeade.

He just doesn’t care.

With a loud whimper he pushes back against Regulus tongue, fucks himself on it, while furiously plucking and rubbing his own nipples.

I can’t hold myself back, not for much longer.

“Come, come, come,” I beg him in my mind.

Severus’ head is thrown back in a grimace of pure want, pure need. His eyes are open, glassy and the usual blank stare is replaced by an utter wild, unseeing, desperate gaze. Then they flutter shut as he cries out again.

Finally Regulus withdraws and sticks three fingers into Severus, then twists them, and at last, Severus’ cock shoots a perfect arc of white pearly come, that splatters against the dusty window, and shaking and trembling Severus sinks against the cool glass, hanging onto the window bar with twitching fingers, and in the same moment I let go, stifling my gasps with the back of my hand.

I feel how hot spunk spills onto my hand, over my fingers. In my feverish imagination it's me fucking Severus' tight hole, making him scream, filling him with my come. Oh god, it’s fucking insane this moment. It’s unbearably intense, nearly painful, and I almost black out.

Regulus doesn’t say anything, but turns Severus sweaty, face around, and forces him to open his mouth, then kisses him. Spunk is dribbling down their chins. Severus laps it up, as if he had never ever anything better. They kiss noisily, sloppily. When their lips part, I see a thread of white come on Severus' lips. Regulus laughs and licks it off.

I should be the one fucking him, I think suddenly. I want to be the one. I want this. I want him.

I am lusting after Snape. I want to fuck Severus Snape.

It’s a bit like being hit with a bat on my head. For years I felt nothing but loathing, faint disgust for Snape, and suddenly it’s all so clear. Suddenly I can’t understand how the truth could evade me for so long. He belongs to me.

_He should be mine._


	7. Chapter 7

I fail an oral potion exam because I am too confused to think of the right answers. My mind is filled with images, with whispers and moans and gasps. I feel Slughorn’s jovial face peer expectantly at me, then turn impatient until he dismisses me with a wave. There’s a rustle of fabric behind me when several students who know the answers raise their arms and wave them impatiently.

“Mr. Snape. Would you care to enlighten Mr. Lupin about the use of snake venom in potions? Which potions contain snake venom, where do they originate from, which ones are classified and which of these potions were already on your curriculum?”

Severus delivers his answers in a smooth voice. Methodically he lists snakes, potions that contain snake venom and their use. I cannot concentrate on his words because the modulation of his voice make me shiver. Only last year he was a whiny child with a whiny voice, and a badly suppressed northern accent. When did it all change? He used to be twitchy, scared and furious, a little scrawny twat.

I am torn out of my musings when Slughorn interrupts him, his voice suddenly a tad shrill: “Enough, Snape. Enough. Thank you. Evans, if you please continue?”

I hear a bit of a commotion, whispers and hisses, the chair creaking as Snape sits down, and then Lily clearing her voice and continuing. Slowly I make my way back to my seat. James and Sirius have already drawn animated cartoons of me and giggle about my ridiculous performance, and Peter rolls his eyes in an exaggerated way.

Later when the bell rings, Slughorn holds Mr. Snape back: “A word with you, if you please.”

I pretend to look for my quills before I stuff them slowly into my bag, straining my ears. Painfully obvious I saunter towards the door where I stop and lean against the door frame.

“You’re a good boy, Snape,” Slughorn says in a low voice, “you’re one of the few students who take their studies seriously so it pains me to have to tell you what I am going to tell you now. Two potions you named today are on a classified list as you very well knew. You are not even supposed to know their names, let alone how to prepare them and most importantly, you should not at any time tell anyone that you know of them.”

There’s an awkward pause, then: “I merely answered your question, Prof–“

Slughorn pats his shoulder. “And I merely advise you to be careful to who you brag about your knowledge,” he smiles at his own joke. “I am not telling you what you ought to know or not. You are the most talented student of my class, but I cannot even award Slytherin points now because you had to mention these potions. Potions that are used in necromancy and also require human flesh, are you mad to even bring that up? I cannot even think of aiding you in your career because of your … unnecessary display. These are dangerous times. You do not want to be associated with the wrong people. I know I don’t.”

There is a moment of silence.

“I don’t require your assistance, Professor,” Snape says softly, “however, there might be a day, when you require mine.”

I can’t believe Snape really said this. I wait for Slughorn’s answer but there is none. When I look up, Snape strides past me, his charcoal robe brushing me, while Slughorn stands in front of his desk frowning.

 

Days later we are out smoking. The professors know and disapprove but don’t enforce the smoking ban out doors. As long as we don’t lurk in the corridors and in the Great Hall, they turn a blind eye. (Still, as soon as we catch sight of one of the professors we hide our cigarettes.)

A group of girls are leaning against a stone balustrade a bit further away, chatting and tossing their hair. Despite our helpless desire we look as unimpressed and bored as possible, trying to pretend we’re not here for them, to watch them, to lie in wait for an opportunity to speak to them and maybe, maybe get a bit further. We don’t have too much to talk about so we replace words with big gestures and loud laughter. (And how is it anyway that girls have so much to talk about? What are they talking about? Why do they giggle so much? I swear I’m not the only one half convinced that they’re laughing at us!) We attempt to look manly, sitting on the cold stone steps, legs apart, bony elbows resting on knobbly knees, pushing our jaws forward so we look more angular, holding our cigarettes between the thumb and the index finger, gesticulating with them, blowing smoke rings. Sometimes one of the girls glances over, and it makes our blood rush and we speak a bit louder, hoping she notices.

The bell rings, and most of the students go inside. Our classes are finished for today. The Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws have herbology together I think, the Slytherins are done for today as well. I watch the girls as they slowly go in, one after the other. Ina or Ines, a Ravenclaw, I think is the last to go. I had my eye on her for a while, although she’s not as attractive as the others. To be honest, I want her because of it. Unattractive girls who are friends with beautiful girls struggle sometimes with their self confidence and are often secretly jealous of the other more confident girls, which again can be exploited. Just when I move to help her with her bag, and her cloak, Snape steps towards her, catches her bag and helps her into the cloak. She flashes him a small thankful smile then rushes inside. Before she vanishes into the Great Hall, she turns around and blows him a kiss.

“Your girlfriend?” I can’t help to ask, somewhat baffled. Mentally I strike Ina/Ines from my list.

“None of your business,” he says. He walks up the stairs past me, then leans against a pillar beside the entrance. I can hear him pulling out a packet of cigarettes, the telltale sound of the cellophane and the foil.

“You know you’re not allowed to smoke here after the bell rings?” I say. I stand up, then step towards him. His cloak is pulled back, revealing a white shirt and black trousers. He is wearing pointy muggle chelsea boots. For a moment he reminds me of my poster of Patti Smith, pale, earnest, subdued anger in the quiet features, the way his mouth is set, the way his jaw-length hair is cut.

He doesn’t wear a vest underneath. I can see a nipple through the thin fabric. I clench my hands so I don’t reach out and touch it, rub it through the cotton. The Warming charm around him is pulsing, dry heat.

He sneers at me. “Want to exercise your power as prefect?” and he sticks a cigarette between his dried, chapped lips. “Must be nice to get to be someone. Usually you’re only Black and James’ little shadow.”

I light his cigarette. He leans in, cupping the flame with his hand. He takes care to touch me, stroking my knuckles with his thumb, then gives me a slow, dark gaze, a hint of a smirk. My heart beats faster. He knows, how can he know?

“So,” he blows the smoke into my face, “what are you doing here all alone without your big strong friends?”

“You’re one to talk,” I say. “You’re always running after Rosier and Crabbe. And you’re always in an awful hurry whenever Malfoy visits. I think you’re the first to greet him, like an eager, little dog.”

“You’re always trying to fuck Sirius’ and James’ girlfriends I heard,” he says, as if I hadn’t said a thing, “always going for the ones they discard. Not too picky, ey?”

He looks at something far off, and when I follow his eyes, I can see Sirius and James circling high above in the sky on their booms. Then his eyes focus on me, and I feel the heat creep up my spine, a sickening pull towards him, my skin tingling where he touched me. The nastiness of his smirk intensifies when he sees the way I rub my hand.

“Is there something you want?” he whispers, then blows smoke into my face again, baring long, pale teeth that gleam in the afternoon light. Like an animal he looks. His cold, black eyes gaze into mine and I feel I can’t hide anything from me. He leans forward and with the hand he is holding the cigarette he touches the front of my trousers.

“You’re hard, you _freak_ ,” he says. “Aren’t you … ashamed?” With a gentleness that belies his words he caresses me. I am in fact hard. Although my hand and feet are cold, I can feel heat throbbing in my cock. This desire is so different from anything I know. It is hateful, urgent, it is naked and ugly and real.

It is purer than anything I have ever felt before.

He puts the cigarette back into his mouth where it sticks on a dry corner of his lower lip, just hanging there, and uses both hands, to unzip my trousers, pull down the pants and grabs my cock. I gasp and hold myself up onto his shoulders.

You know how a snake looks cold, slimy, and somehow wet? Do you remember the sensation when you do touch her and you can feel that the body is actually warm, dry ... not unpleasant at all?

It’s the same with Snape’s long, bony fingers. They look as if they’re cold and clammy but in fact they’re warm, gentle, firm.

He begins to stroke me. Maddeningly slow first. I push into his hand. With a sneer he spits onto my cock, then rubs it over the gland and I nearly pass out.

“Everyone can see us!” he hisses. “I bet Potter and Black are watching us right now, wondering what you’re doing here, standing so close to Snivellus, hm?”

I can only grunt. He is speeding up now, stroking faster, and squeezing it expertly at the tip.

“Oh god,” I manage. My eyes flutter shut, my head falls back. So sweet, so good, oh god.

“I know,” Snape nearly croons softly. “Sh …”

His hand moves faster, then he pushes himself against my thigh and I can feel his erection; I am only a moment away. I hear myself struggling for breath, can smell that cigarette smell, feel the tips of his lanky hair brushing my face. When I open my eyes I see his ember eyes on me, large, filled with an emotion I don’t want to understand yet. It can’t be good.

“Now, please,” I beg. I am on fire. Burning, burning, burning. My hair is plastered to my forehead, the armpits wet with sweat. Oh god, I am so very close. I close my eyes and for one sweet, brief moment it’s not his hand I’m fucking, it’s his tight hole, and he’s writhing and pushing back.

Then Snape takes his hand off me, takes his cigarette and blows the smoke into my face.

“I am late,” he says, “I have to go.”

What? No! NO!

He lets the cigarette drop and steps on it with his narrow muggle boots. “Now be a good little faggot and run off to your friends!” he smirks.

Before he can turn away from me I grab his arms. He tries but can’t twist himself free.

“Stop that,” he snarls, but I am out of my mind. It’s his goddamn fault.

“No!” I gasp, working my cock with my own hand now, pulling it roughly. The magic has gone, but I have to come. He is struggling and swearing yet I am stronger than him. I don’t even feel the resistance, it’s so easy for me to pin him against the wall. If anything then his useless struggles arouse me even more. He curses in shock as I grasp both of his thin wrists and hold them effortlessly in my left hand.

An image flits through my mind, Snape in the green house, clawing at the window, the moon light on his sallow skin, his reddened, hard cock in his hand, screaming with lust, and it occurs to me that he’s just like the poisonous vines, the Devil’s snares and thorny roses, the sinful looking orchids with their funeral smell. He's like a deadly nocturnal plant kept in the dark, waiting patiently to strike.

He says, “hands off, you filthy poof,” twisting his upper body in an attempt to get out of my grip. The cords on his neck are taut, and his eyes are large now, not so empty and disdainful any more.

It feels amazing. Suddenly I can feel his blood pumping through his veins, hear his heart beat faster and louder. It’s anger, but also arousal, which he can’t hide from me, although I know he thinks he can. His fear. He’s afraid of me.

Then I come, crying out, white hot spunk shooting up, and it lands onto his collar bone, his throat, his chin, his right cheek. My mouth is blindly seeking and finding that soft expanse of skin underneath his jaw, the jugular vein, licking and sucking, and I hear him moan.

When I finally tear away from him, he rubs his wrists, then looks up at me. There are still a few drops of spunk on his face, and without taking his eyes off mine he darts the tip of his tongue out and licks a tiny drop on the left corner of his lips.

“Satisfied now?” he hisses, then pulls his cloak close and goes back into the castle.

From far away I hear Sirius and James shout, nearing on their brooms. I clean myself up, wave at them, as nothing had happened and step into the castle before they can come too close.

 

The first one to achieve the Animagus transformation is Peter. It’s only because of him that Sirius and James manage the transformation as well. Once Peter manages to find his form he can explain it to Sirius and to James. Peter doesn’t exactly lord that over us, but well, he’s awfully smug the following days. He transforms into his rat form more often than necessary just to brag.

Once Sirius gets fed up with this, and chases him as Padfoot but he’s still clumsy as a dog. Peter swiftly climbs up a book shelf and dislodges a heavy tome with his small grey body, which promptly falls on Padfoot’s head.

It takes days for me and James to mend that rift between Peter and Sirius. Silently I agree with Peter. Lately Sirius tends to treat his friends (me included) with derision, sneer in unfitting moments, make disparaging, outright mean remarks, and I admire the way Peter lets himself not be bullied by Sirius.

Sometimes I think Sirius is angry at me. We ceased all our illicit activities together. I don’t miss the sex. Sirius is a stunningly beautiful boy, but we’re too close. I do miss Sirius as a friend I realise. Only now I remember that he could be a loyal friend, a sweet, careless person with an open, friendly smile, a charming jokster, maybe not as cunning as Peter is, maybe not as firm and assertive James is, maybe not as calm and disciplined I can be, but so honest in his emotions, so direct. I have difficulties to recognise the dark, sullen person Sirius has become in the last months.

At night I ask myself if maybe I wasn’t a good friend. We sucked each other’s cocks, but I failed to see what is troubling him, what’s really on his mind.

The Animagus project does bring all of us closer again. The transformation after all is not a small feat. I have also tried to turn into an Animagus but had to give up. I just could not do it. Some werewolves though can also be Animagi, so it’s not a limitation of the curse. I even heard of a werewolf in New Zealand whose Animagus was a sheep. Oh, the irony.

When the others can feel the animals choose them, the spirit form inside of their minds, I can only sense the wolf’s blood thirst, and I know that if I would continue with the training I would only succeed in helping the wolf take over, making Moony more powerful than he already is, opening doors that should remain firmly shut.

Many wizards don’t ever achieve an Animagus transformation. McGonagall strongly advises against trying before one turns seventeen. There are laws against Apparating when underage, even the intake of potions like Polyjuice potion is deemed dangerous for younger people. Many wizards believe that for magic that alters the shape of your body in one or the other way one should be fully grown, the body should be matured, and they are right. Just because Sirius, James and Peter manage it, is not a proof against that law. They are just unbelievably lucky, especially Peter whose body still looks like the body of a twelve year old boy.

The completed transformations let me forget Snape for a while, but by the night of the next full moon we are reminded of his presence because he hides in the Great Hall, waiting for us. James curses as soon as he becomes aware of him on our map, then we turn around and instead make our way through long corridors, enter that pathway into Hogsmeade and then walk to the Shrieking Shack. We arrive half an hour later than planned and I barely make it, but the moment James and Sirius transform I can hear them speak to me, their minds and their presence soothing me immediately.

When many years later, I have to explain to anyone, why I was ever friends with Sirius Black, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew then this moment and everything that led up to it comes to my mind; the moment where I run with them, and they with me, unafraid, full of happiness and I can feel their love, and I am not alone.

This is the first time that I know with absolute certainty how I never wanted to be different. I always longed to be one of them, and Sirius, James and Peter grant me this wish as best as they can. They are my friends.

The whole night we spend in the Forbidden Forest, watch the darkness around us with different eyes, hear with different ears, together we watch the moon pale in the sky and the sun rise in shy lavender colours. We watch the dew drops on the grass blades like perfect little diamonds, smell that cool, damp smell of the dawn. We’re reckless again of course. We should have returned when it’s still dark but none of us can’t resist.

After I transform back, James’ Animagus carries me, so we can return faster to the Shack. We only remember in the last moment that it would be prudent to turn back and crawl naked into the Shack, where our clothes are folded on the dusty bed.

The rest of the day the four of us fall asleep during almost every lesson. At lunch Peter falls snoring into his soup bowl. From the other table meanwhile Snape watches us with black, maliciously glinting eyes.

Later in the corridors he lies in wait for me. Always, this one. Always waiting for me somewhere, lurking in the corners, in the shadows. But then, I’ll always choose the corridors where he’s most likely to be, and these days I often leave classes earlier or later than my friends so he can find me. So who is following who?

“Tomorrow night, midnight, the class room on the third floor,” he whispers as he passes me by, his cloak swishing.

 

It’s hard for me to concentrate on anything the next day. Even Sirius, oblivious as he is, throws me questioning glances. Peter is silent, gruff, his baby blue eyes dull like pebbles. Sometimes he jabs me with his elbow, hissing: “Pay attention!” but I can’t.

I am hard and aching. I feel the blood throbbing in my cock. Every minute I glance at the clock, and damn the minutes that go by like hours. Oh, of course it’s Binns we have today. After twenty minutes I am ready to scream.

I can’t help but look for Snape in the Great Hall during lunch but he is nowhere to be seen. Then the slow, tedious afternoon crawls around. Arithmancy. One of the subjects Snape takes too, although he is missing today. I usually excel in Arithmancy, but today all the numbers are a confusing tumble in my head.

Finally, finally we’re dismissed and we have some time before dinner. James who finished classes an hour earlier is on his broom. Peter wants to discuss today’s subjects with me which I usually don’t mind … but not today. After a while Peter frowns and gives up.

Sirius must still be exhausted from his Animagus transformation because he excuses himself and goes to bed. When James and I enter the room the curtains to his bed are drawn. Fortunately Peter goes to bed early and around eleven James too falls asleep. I somehow manage to fall into a light sleep until ten before midnight, then a little onyx stone I charmed to glow rhythmically when it’s time to get up, lights up red. I cover the warm stone with my pillow, then rise quietly. I wonder if I shall risk it and cross the room to search James’ trunk for his Cloak and the map, but then decide against it. Both things are likely buried underneath dirty robes and socks, and I’d only make a racket.

Nauseous with excitement I slip through the corridors, always keeping to the shadows. At three minutes past midnight I arrive at the class room, slightly out of breath because I’ve been running that last part. Not many students know of these corridor, so teachers don’t often patrol them. Snape is waiting, leaning at the closed wooden door. His cloak has slipped of the shoulder and reveals a protruding, long collarbone. When I finally stand before him, he gives me a mischievous little smile, then leans forward and gives me a soft, warm kiss. He tastes wonderful. O flesh, wetness, blood. I tilt my head and open my mouth, wanting more, sucking at his delicious lips, chasing his tongue.

Suddenly he pulls me into the class room. It’s so dark I don’t recognise it first. Someone—Snape has cleared all the broken furniture and objects into the back of the room, just where we’re standing now. He has drawn the curtains over most of the windows, except for one through which the moonlight streams in and forms a silvery puddle on the wooden floor. Dust sparkles in the air, on the floor boards.

A boy is standing in the moon light, stark naked, the moon light painting his spine white, casting an ivory shimmer on his left shoulder. I know who he is, before he turns around.

Almost gently Severus presses me into a large chair, that feels as if it has been transfigured, into the darkest corner. “Petrificus!” Severus whispers into my ear before I can draw my wand (which is in my back pocket because I am a stupid idiot) I feel my body tense and go numb. Severus kisses my cold, unmoving lips. “Only for you, my randy Gryffindor!” he says.

“Severus?” Sirius doesn’t move from his spot but cranes his neck and squints. It’s the first time I hear Sirius call him by his name, without derision, hate or contempt. Something inside me twists. Who could have known that Sirius could say this name with softness?

“What a fucking, miserable liar you are,” I can’t help thinking. All these years he made us think … all this time he deceived us.

Severus steps into the light and walks towards him.

“I thought it was you!” Sirius murmurs and raises his arms to kiss him. It’s one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Sirius’ body looks pale and ethereal in the moon light, so painfully perfect and immaculate. And Severus in his black cloak is like night personified, embracing him roughly, yanking Sirius head back. Sirius doesn’t get angry though. He lets his head fall back, and doesn’t complain when Severus savagely bites his throat.

When Severus steps back, I get a glimpse of Sirius naked, erect cock. His eyes are closed, his lips parted. Severus runs his hands over the smooth skin, then turns him around so that he faces the window. Moonlight falls over Sirius features, and he looks angelic, a vision of immaculate male beauty. Slowly Sirius moves, in a dreamy, languid way I have never seen him move before. When he reaches the dusty desk that is placed in front of the window, he puts his hands flat onto the surface, then waits.

Severus turns his head and stares directly at me, a vicious smile on his face. He reaches forward and caresses Sirius full lips with his fingers, and Sirius sucks them in a wanton, lustful way. Finally Severus pulls them out–I see Sirius wet tongue darting out between his open lips, silently begging–and gently dips them into Sirius’ cleft. He moves his hand up and down, and Sirius gasps and pushes himself back. Now he lowers himself so his elbows are resting on the table. The muscles in his thighs are quivering. The air is burning my lungs, everything is burning inside me. I thought I knew lust! What I believed to know is perhaps a tenth of what I am feeling now.

There is hatred too. It is the most intense feeling I can identify: I hate Sirius so much. I have never hated him more. How he submits to Severus like a bitch in heat, how he spreads his legs and moans, the way he has never ever done with me. He has never even let my cock near his little twitching hole, yet he all but begs Severus to fuck him.

I hate Severus even more. How smug he is, how he delights in this disgusting, filthy act of revenge. Sirius Black ready to be fucked, naked and Lupin hard as hell while watching. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?

Severus withdraws his finger and Sirius whimpers pathetically, raising his arse into the air. When Severus steps away from him, Sirius can’t help himself and turns around, which earns him a light slap on his arse. The power balance is obvious here. I cannot understand how a boy like Sirius would agree to be so submissive. I never ever had that impression of him. It seems he yearns for it, revels in this.

Severus takes a discarded cloak from the floor and pulls out a small bottle whose content I can’t really see. It becomes evident though when he approaches Sirius again, and pours some of it onto his cleft. The sound Sirius emits is almost a whine, a sound of relief and anticipation. Severus continues teasing him for a while, never forgetting to look at me. Even when he rather firmly pushes a long finger inside the doubtlessly heated and eager hole, he looks at me, through Sirius thrashing and loud pleading. To him Sirius doesn’t even seem to exist.

Sirius is clawing at the table, while pressing his upper body and his face against the surface, and rising on his toes, to be able to take in more of Severus fingers. His breathy moans fill the class room.

“Do you like this?” Severus asks.

“Yes, … very … much,” moans Sirius without hesitating.

“I can feel your arse clenching around my fingers,” Severus says in a low voice, “You must want it badly.”

Then he shoves them deeper, and twists them a little. To me that looks a bit painful and Sirius cries out, loudly, sobbing, but he doesn’t beg Severus to stop.

“Yes, that’s it, oh god!” he gasps while his whole body jerks, “so … good!”

Ah, Severus found that angle that Sirius likes best.

“I know …,” says Severus softly, “I know what you need.”

“Come on please, fuck him already,” I think. I suddenly recall the way Sirius used to push back onto my finger when I fucked him with it.

“I am ready,” Sirius manages between the thrusts Severus delivers with his fingers.

“Ready for what?” Severus asks slowly, his voice dripping with amusement. Yet there is something else, but with Snape there is always something else.

“I am ready to be fucked!” Sirius says immediately in a different, almost sober tone, that tells me that this is not an unusual scenario. He knows his cues. He is quietly panting now instead of moaning loudly, halting his greedy, slutty movements as if not to anger Severus. Without looking back he cocks his head, bathes his face in moon light, closes his eyes.

Severus smiles victoriously at me. In that moment I feel almost sorry for Sirius.

Almost.

He squeezes Sirius round, firm arse with one hand, while he frees his cock with the other. He is half hard, quickly strokes himself with the rest of the lube to full hardness, until it points at Sirius cleft, all this while smiling at me. I am mesmerised by the glistening, dark cock. If I could move I would lick my lips now.

God, no, it’s not beautiful. It’s ugly like Snape himself, but monstrous, thick, veined, straight, not even slightly tapered, the mushroom head big and round. It looks as if a flesh coloured pipe is attached to his groins, not something to bring pleasure with, but to inflict pain, to invade, to hurt. I notice that it looks like the penis of a fully grown man, not the smooth pink appendix of a boy.

Without even warning Sirius he pushes inside him, and Sirius lets out a long howl.

“Oh fuck!” 

He struggles for air. One hand still on the table, he reaches out to the window sill to with the other arm, gripping it fiercely, hanging on, while Severus doesn’t give him time to adjust, immediately begins to fuck him with hard, punishing thrusts.

“God,” Sirius sobs, then bites into his own shoulder. I have never seen him so lost, so desperate.

I cannot decide if I want to fuck Severus or Sirius. I never really desired Sirius himself really. I wanted to fuck him, because well, I simply wanted to fuck. Would Peter not have behaved so standoffish and prissy I would have fucked him as well.

But the way he acts with Severus makes me want him. I feel a new, entirely feral desire for Sirius, Sirius and his breathy moans and long graceful arms, revelling in being fucked thoroughly.

I am so very hard. Severus took care of that before he petrified me. Bastard.

I can’t help but compare Sirius and Severus. While Severus seemed utterly careless when he was fucked by Regulus, Sirius emanates despair. It’s as if he is punishing himself, as if he is demeaning himself, using Severus as a tool, like others would use the whip for their self flagellation.

The way he fucks himself on Severus’ cock as if he wants to split himself open.

The way his lips are parted like in a fervent prayer, his eyes closed.

The way he clings to the window sill, shoulder muscles bunching, tendons running prominent from wrist to elbow, like a drowning man, or like someone who knows who is drowning but still determined to pull someone with him. This thought merely flits through my confused over heated mind while I watch him struggle and fight, but years later I will come back to this moment and this thought.

Sirius begins pulling his cock with Severus’ thrusts and soon his whole body becomes rigid.

“Ah!” he cries out, then he comes in thick heavy spurts on the desk. I feel his ecstasy, his one moment of sweet death, when something inside you catapults you out of your body and you float in this one eternal second of bliss.

Severus stills for a moment, buried inside him, until Sirius has rode his orgasm out, then resumes the fucking, grunting and pushing Sirius head onto the desk, and holding him down. Sirius just lies there, waiting, seemingless uncaring that his chest and one side of his face are smeared with his own come.

When Severus comes, he turns his gaze at me again, and I realise in this moment that it is me he wants. He pulls out midway and shoots half of his load onto Sirius back, then pushes into Sirius again where he goes into rictus, clawing at Sirius hips.

Severus pulls his cock out too quickly, and there’s an undignified sound afterwards. I can literally _hear_ Sirius blush, but Severus only sneers.

A few moments later Sirius rises and turns around to look at Severus.

“That … was good,” he says in a strange awkward voice, “wasn’t it?”

“Of course,” says Snape surprisingly gentle, “when is it not good?” He tucks himself in, then turns around to retrieve Sirius clothing.

Sirius laughs.

He stands behind him and his arms rise, shakily, as if he wants to embrace Severus, or maybe only touch him, run his hands gently over his flanks, the way lovers do. He steps a little closer to him. But when Severus turns around, rigid and forbidding in his black cloak, Sirius takes a few steps back and merely takes the clothes that Severus hands him.

Severus watches dispassionately while Sirius pulls on his trousers and his pullover, then dons his cloak. The only emotion that briefly crosses his features is that of an ugly triumph.

Sirius attempts to be casual, “Alright, Snape, see you around then?” (His attempt is futile because he can’t suppress the slight insecurity that sneaks into his tone and lets his voice crack in the end.)

I don’t know if Snape is fooled by this. He likely is. Despite his grandeur, his repeated bragging of being able to see through others, Snape is crap when it comes to reading other people’s emotions. He doesn’t even notice Sirius’ wide and expressive eyes, the way his lower lip quivers a little. Severus dismisses him with a nod, and Sirius abruptly turns on his heels and walks out of the class room, not looking left or right.

“You fucking bastard!” I growl, when Severus finally releases the spell. Severus, of course, laughs, then straddles me.

My hands are on his hips, then I haul us both off the chair and onto the floor. I hold Severus’ arms but he doesn’t struggle. He only looks at me with his malicious black eyes, infernal, dark amusement in them. They’re cold as river water I think.

“You pretty much set the tone between us with this performance!” I hiss, then reach down and tear his robes open, yank his trousers down. He lifts his legs and spreads them. His hole is ready for me, prepared and stretched and wet.

He gives me a sideways smirk, like a satisfied cat as I undo my own trousers.

“Why did you it?” I ask him, while I push in, not bothering to finger him. “What sick game are you playing?”

Severus arches up, and closes his eyes, then puts his legs onto my shoulders. I knew he would be tight, hot. I knew how this would feel. Oh, but fuck, this is real. I can feel him clenching his muscles around me, as if he’s trying out my size.

“Is that the best you can do?” he murmurs.

I thrust in, harder, faster.

“Why do you care?” Severus asks. “Why should you care if Sirius gets buggered. You saw how he loves it.” There’s a nasty undertone in his voice, so I push in harder, then shift my weight, when I feel the soft nub in the smooth slick channel of his.

He opens his mouth in a silent cry and claws at my back.

“So do you,” I pant. It’s hard to speak now, to form any thoughts. Severus lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are strangely glassy I notice with satisfaction. With gritted teeth he clenches around me, rhythmically now, pushes himself against me. I nearly lose my consciousness.

I look for that angle again, and when I find it I put my hands on Severus’ hips so he can’t move away, and begin to slow down, stroke that sweet spot inside him as long and slow as possible, more gliding than thrusting now.

Severus bites his lips, whispers something. Now whenever he clenches he doesn’t only increase my pleasure. It drives him mad too, that pressure, that spot.

“Fuck you,” he manages.

“Do you like to be fucked?” I ask grinding against him. I push deep inside, so deep I nearly come because Severus’ grip around me is too much, but I manage to still myself. I only give small pushes, and he is going crazy underneath me, nearly frothing with frustration and lust.

He rolls his head back, black inky hair spreading. Some strands are sticking to his cheek bones, to his forehead. Unexpectedly he comes up, freeing himself from my grip and takes both sides of my face into his hands and kisses me.

“Yes,” he says ferociously, “yes, I like it, and you know. I like to be fucked hard, so fuck me already.”

Then he lets himself fall back again, and spreads his legs even wider apart, holds one up, as if he’s presenting himself for me, while stroking his cock with the other and I … I think I lose my mind. Something inside me breaks loose, and for the first time in my life I know what it means to really, really let go, to really loose yourself.

I’ve never fucked anyone harder than I fuck Severus: Were the castle to fall apart around us, were the world going to burn down it would not stop me from fucking Severus. It would not matter to me. There is only me and him. With every frantic beat of my heart I feel he is mine mine mine.

I don’t remember what I shout when I empty myself inside him. My orgasm is so strong and hard that I nearly pass out, that it threatens to tear my heart out. It’s nothing like the usual physical relief but more as if a dam has broken and all of me is pouring into the open and there is no control over the secrets I want to, need to keep, all the carefully constructed structures that I built around my soul to keep the animal inside and hidden … it’s all gone, washed away and in this very moment I can’t even feel the fear that I should be feeling.

I continue fucking through my haze. Although I am spent and exhausted and wet with sweat my cock manages to stay hard. It begins to hurt a little, but I don't care. Come is dripping out of his well fucked hole. It takes a while and some effort until Severus comes, his face distorted into an ugly grimace, his eyes rolling like the eyes of a horse.

There’s so much anguish in him. Behind the fury I can feel something else, but I can’t really put my finger on it. I might be imagining it.

Until today I cannot say why I know what he is going to say to me once the tremors in his body ebb, once his breathing slows down:

“I can’t stand you, Lupin.”

I shrug indifferently. I think that it doesn’t matter what we feel, what we want. He belongs to me, if he likes it or not. Many years later when I tell someone else my feelings about Snape I carefully weigh my words: “I neither like nor dislike Snape.”

And this is the truth.


End file.
